


In Which Sherlock Grapples With His Feelings (and John)

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Poor John, Pre-Slash, Sherlock is a nervous wreck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:36:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My heart is hammering. All the little looks, the strange remarks, the awkward tension…how long have I waited for this moment? And now that it's here, I'm not entirely sure how to proceed. Unfamiliar territory, in all respects. It's not just that Sherlock's a virgin, or a man (don't think about that too hard, mate, or things will really stop making sense), but it's that this is Sherlock. The man is not exactly an open book. And I am absolutely terrified that I'll do something to scare Sherlock away."</p><p>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sherlock Grapples With His Feelings (and John)

**Author's Note:**

> Britpicked by the wonderful verymod! (Any remaining mistakes are, of course, my own.)

_John:_

"I'll be so careful, Sherlock," I breathe against the back of my flatmate's neck, dark curls tickling my lips. My hand is hovering mere centimetres above Sherlock's hip and I can hear the plea in my voice as I whisper, "So careful." I know I sound desperate but I don't care, because I  _am_ desperate. Every cell in my body is aching for this.

It's the most miniscule of movements, but Sherlock shifts, and the soft fabric of his cotton pyjamas connects with my impossibly steady hand. I'm not trembling, oh no, because fear makes me strong and right now I am more frightened, perhaps, than I have ever been in my life. But nothing Sherlock does is unintentional, I know that. That little shift was consent. The smallest fragment of my terror recedes as I tighten my hand, just a little, on the jutting bone beneath it and drop my lips so carefully to the smooth skin of Sherlock's neck, just on the nape. Sherlock lets out a small breath, twitches his hip up a fraction.

My heart is hammering. All the little looks, the strange remarks, the awkward tension…how long have I waited for this moment? And now that it's here, I'm not entirely sure how to proceed. Unfamiliar territory, in all respects. It's not just that Sherlock's a virgin, or a  _man_ (don't think about that too hard, mate, or things will really stop making sense), but it's that this is  _Sherlock_. The man is not exactly an open book. And I am absolutely terrified that I'll do something to scare Sherlock away.

_Sherlock:_

John's lips, his tongue, sliding down my earlobe (pinna? auricle? the linguistics currently escape me—I feel him move from cartilage to fleshy skin and the transition makes me dizzy) in the smallest of measures. His breath is hot and leaves his mouth in tiny, trembling bursts.

I squeeze my eyes shut. The world is an uncomfortable kaleidoscope of sensation, and I need him to  _stop_  because it's too much and the noise in my head has reached a pinnacle of almost unbearable volume.  _Stop, stop._  Arousal feels like fear. My heart rate is increased (by how much, Sherlock? I'm too frightened/overwhelmed/engaged to count) and my breath has become shallow, quick, so that I sound as though I've been running. (I want to run. I want to dash down the stairs and out of the flat.) Increase in blood pressure. Flush across the cheeks, neck, chest. (John's hand trailing a lazy circle there, toying with the top button of my shirt, his mouth moving carefully to my neck.) Like fear, this new sensation makes my hands- curled into tight fists around the balled up sheets of John's tidy bed- tremble.

"It's okay," John whispers. His voice is so calm, so steady. I want to believe him, almost  _do_ believe him, until the hand that had been toying with my shirt brushes down low, low, impossibly low on my stomach and a blaze of emotion washes through me like napalm.

"No, no,  _no_ ," I beg, rolling away from him and toppling to the floor in an untidy heap. I sit up on my knees and peer at him from over the mattress, my breath catching in my throat. Even through all this  _muck_ of feeling I can still see everything,  _everything_ , and it disgusts/fascinates/alarms me that I'm worried for John, worried for the stricken look on his face and the guilty darkness taking over his eyes. He thinks I don't want him; he's wrong. That's the problem, of course. I  _do_ want him: every chemical in my body says that this is normal, natural, good. But when have my body and I ever agreed on anything?

_John:_

Sherlock's peeking at me like a frightened child, and my stomach clenches horribly. Oh God, what have I done?

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry, please-" I begin, but he shakes his head until his dark curls are falling into his eyes and I go quiet.

" _No_ ," he says emphatically, the word ringing through my little bedroom. I feel sick. How could I have been so stupid? I had been so sure he wanted this, but who could be sure of anything with Sherlock Holmes? And now I'd lost him, probably forever-

I don't know how he gets there so fast, but Sherlock is in my arms before I can finish that thought, his mouth pressed roughly to mine and his hands, so thin and delicate, searching my body frantically. I reach up to touch him instinctively and he leans back, snarls: " _Don't._ " So I let my hands fall to my side as he kisses me into a stupor. It's hard to breathe, hard to think. His body is so warm and his hands are so impatient; it feels like they're touching all of me and not enough at the same time. And then he's gone just as fast, his footsteps echoing down the stairwell.

_Sherlock:_

Tingling. My whole body tingles. The cool night air does nothing to dissipate this heat. Heart: thrumming. Mind: unreliable. Pulse: highly elevated. I look down at the stretch of Baker Street below- the rooftop is an exceptional vantage point, as well as a much needed seclusion- and touch my thumb to my bottom lip. Swollen, slick. I fancy I can still feel John's lips against mine. Ha. Sentiment? Anything is possible tonight, I suspect, even that.

I can feel all the symptoms of arousal retracting, and it only solidifies the fact that they were  _there_ in the first place. Why? I fish around in my dressing gown's pocket, withdraw the identity tags I'd nicked from John's dresser. His name is a series of indentations beneath my thumb. My life, by my estimation (and of course mine is the only one I value, except maybe John's) has experienced some unquantifiable benefit from John being in it. A mystery. That's a laugh; aren't mysteries my area?

I smell like him. My mouth tastes of his. I can feel the impression of his fingers on the bone of my hip. I feel like I  _need_  something, need it the way I needed cocaine in the past, the way I need cases and nicotine and adrenaline. John's touch is an addictive substance; I find this doesn't bother me as much as it perhaps should.

Pressing my ear to the roof tiles, I imagine I can hear John below me, the creak of the stairs and tell-tale whistle of the kettle. That would be typical- it is a singularly British trait of John's to rely on tea when in need of soothing. Does John need soothing? Am I a percolating presence in his life? I smile at the thought. Yes, that makes sense. John's my cocaine; I'm John's battlefield. The air makes me shiver slightly, and I pull my dressing gown more tightly around me. In a few moments, John will come up and coax me back into the flat with the promise of tea and distance. I will allow it. I'll allow him to lead me downstairs, to set me at the table and pour me a drink I don't want or need. I'll watch his work-rough hands circle his own mug as he explains, apologizes. I won't say a word. And when he's done expelling all that stupidity all over our kitchen, I'll stand and press my lips to his and whisper into his mouth: "Shut up, John." And he will.


End file.
